


A Knife Into My Bed

by handful_ofdust



Category: 3:10 to Yuma (2007)
Genre: Ben Wade is a Lying Liar, Drunk Sex, Drunkenness, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Extremely Dubious Consent, M/M, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-26
Updated: 2014-09-26
Packaged: 2018-02-18 21:55:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2363486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/handful_ofdust/pseuds/handful_ofdust
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the verge of the Bisbee job, cracks are beginning to show. If Jackson could just stop Charlie Prince thinking about Ben Wade for five minutes...that's the idea, anyway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_Now give me some of what you’re having/ I’ll take you as a viper into my head/ A knife into my bed, arsenic when I’m fed/ I dream a highway back to you…_ \--Gillian Welch, “I Dream a Highway”

  
In Total Wreck, they stopped to get fresh horses for those as needed ‘em; Jackson took a reconoiter over to the local saloon with some of the others, just for a glass of something strong and maybe some light chat with a woman who wasn’t _necessarily_ a whore—but ended his evening early, after pounding on some shit-for-brains stock-herder ‘till Sutherland and Kinter finally managed to pull him off. Predictably, the man’s sole mistake (aside from bein’ ugly) had involved glancing out the window at the wrong damn time, spotting Ben Wade crossing the street with his second-in-command dancing close attendance, as ever—trotting along, quick-time, with a hand on either back-turned gun-butt, to keep ‘em from jouncing from their holsters—and noting:

  
“That’s Charlie Prince, ain’t it—dressy little sumbitch with the pistols, over there? I heard of him. Heard he’s Ben Wade’s bitch.”

  
He’d caught Jackson’s eye, and winked—to which Jackson’d just nodded, then hauled off and flattened the fucker’s nose with one punch. Twenty or so brawling minutes later, he found himself outside as well, sprawled in the dust with his “friends” hangin’ over him, doling out a few softer-than-they-looked rib-kicks while simultaneously blocking the rest of the stock-herder’s pals from jumping past to finish the job; turned out, twenty on one really never did shake down too well, even if you happened to be built like a barn (and drunk). So they were saving him from worse, and Jackson sure appreciated the thought, but shit! It damn well stung, nevertheless.

  
Not to mention exactly how damn hilarious Charlie would think Jackson defending _his_ “honor” would be, anyhow—and that was assuming (always dangerous, with young Mister Prince) he didn’t get far more insulted by the very idea than he’d’ve been by the sumbitch calling him queer, in the first damn place. Probably wouldn’t’ve given a good goddamn, come to think, ‘less the bastard’d called him “Princess” when he did it…but then again, the man _had_ mentioned Wade, too.

  
_Man slanders Ben Wade, right there out in the open where anyone can hear, and you don’t think to tell ME?_

  
_Well, I would’ve, Charlie—but YOU’d’ve killed the asshole, and I just didn’t think we had that kind’a time to spare. I mean, that’s what Wade would’ve said, right?_

  
_Probably. He’d’ve been right to, too._

  
_Yeah, ‘course. ‘Cause the Bible-struttin’ peacock always IS…_

  
And oh, he could just see Charlie now, glaring up at him with them green eyes, fit to burst into flames of righteous anger on “the boss”’s behalf. Snapping: _Well, if you KNEW that already, you dumb ox, why’d you even have to ask?_

  
No good reason at all, obviously. ‘Cept the dim, dumb, blind hope that one day—if he voiced the thought often enough, or every once in a while, or…Hell, at all, which was more’n _Charlie_ ever damn well did…the answer might actually—

  
( _might_ , maybe, possibly, eventually)

  
—change.

  
(Aw, shit.)

  
Stick it in a play, the rubes’d laugh it off the stage. Yet here he was, sloshed as a coot, takin’ kicks from the same ones usually had his back to save himself a bullet. And arguing with Charlie Goddamn Prince in his own Goddamn head, while he did it.

  
“Better get yourself back to your room, Ed,” Sutherland told him, out the side of his mouth. “Lay low, ‘till this blows over.” Adding, louder—using another kick for punctuation, this one right to the pit of the gut, with enough force to turn him hotel-wards: “An’ don’t come back anytime soon, neither!”

  
“Don’t aim to,” Jackson managed, gaining his feet; he spat blood in the road and stalked off, rounding the nearest corner ‘fore anyone could get up much of a stab at pursuit.

  
Wasn’t much he could do about his size, but doffing his furs and hat seemed like it might do as a distraction, in a pinch. So he did that, feinted left, ducked right and somehow found himself already inside the agreed-on flophouse’s attempt at a bar with his face turned away from the door, studying the wall as he balances on yet another ricketty chair right next to—

  
“That _you_ , Charlie?”

  
The man himself stared balefully up from under his hat-brim, an empty bottle in front of him, a quarter-full glass next to it: Charlie Prince, all alone—Wade very much not in evidence—and more’n halfway drunk himself, to boot. Seemed he’d been poring over something still held between two unsteady half-gloved fingers: A butcher’s-paper sketch from Wade’s tablet (his own familiar profile reduced to barest lines and shadows, now smudged almost beyond recognition), which he shoved away inside his jacket as he caught Jackson looking, half-ripping it in his haste.

  
“Been drinkin’?” Jackson asked, stupidly; half-felt like kicking himself for it a second after, though he’d had more’n enough of that sort of fun for today. Luckily, Charlie was already in the phase of intoxication which rendered witty repartee pretty much impossible—kind’a fast, but then again, he didn’t indulge too much, after all. Or pretty well ever, that Jackson had seen.

  
So: “Obviously,” Charlie threw back, choking the rest of his shot down, and pouring himself another. “And why? ’Cause of you, you goddamn fool.”

Jackson shrugged. “I’d apologize, I only knew what I did to bring this on.”

  
“Boss wanted to give you dynamite duty. I argued against it.”

  
“Huh.” Shelving the fact that Wade’d apparently decided he was disposable enough to let blow up for the minute, Jackson chose to concentrate on the more hopeful part that sentence, instead. Feeling it out, out loud: “ _You_ argued with Ben damn Wade. Over _me_.”

  
Charlie nodded, unhappily. “I _know_!”

  
“…he don’t much like that, I reckon.”

  
“No. He sure don’t.” Charlie knocked his latest shot down, went to fill ‘er up again and stopped short halfway through the motion, regarding the bottle he held like he suddenly couldn’t remember what it was for. Took a minute, rallying his thoughts, then told Jackson: “And—you got a big damn mouth, by the way, ‘cause the very first thing he asked me when I said we should probably keep you upright was…” At Jackson’s bark of amusement: “Oh, don’t you _dare_  goddamn laugh at me!”

  
“Hey, Jesus, Charlie—c’mon, now. You think _I_ told Wade we was—“

  
“Well, _somebody_ must’ve, and I sure as Hell know who it wasn’t.“

  
“Well, yeah; then that’d be Sutherland, all right—not me.” Charlie snorted, a wealth of doubt in the very sound; _easy to SAY._ Annoyed, Jackson continued: “You told me to shut up about it or it’d never happen again, remember? So…I did, ‘cause—well, ‘cause what the fuck do _you_ think?”

  
They locked eyes for a heartbeat or so, before Charlie looked away, sighing. A morose pause ensued, during which Jackson took advantage of his own proximity to the bottle and stole a couple of swigs that burned going down, matching the heat rising inside him almost perfectly; keep himself lit enough and he might be content just to sit there watching the Princess think, screw up those sun-bleached brows of his and wrinkle his freckled nose in consideration, if only for the moment. ‘Til Charlie said, at last—

  
“Might as well admit it, Jackson: Only reason you keep on sayin’ how you want to fuck me is ‘cause Ben Wade’s been there first. Just have to stick your damn thumb in the boss’s eye any way you can, that’s all.”

  
Jackson, who was halfway through another swallow, all but coughed the rest of it back out at this. “Only reason I want to _fuck_ you is ‘cause I want to _fuck_ you, Charlie—Hell, we done near everything else. Ain’t no damn secret about it. I like you; like seein’ you naked, like makin’ you yell. Just don’t see why Wade should get to keep all that to himself, is all.”

  
“’Cause _I_ want him to?” Charlie shook his head, amazed. “My God, but you’re an idjit.”

  
“Maybe so,” Jackson agreed, then grabbed him by both arms at once, before Charlie—far too inebriated for strategy, even when it came to simply recognizing it—had a chance to figure out what was coming. And kissed him.

  
Charlie went along with it for longer than Jackson expected, relaxing into his grip with a hot bonelessness that made Jackson’s head swim: Jesus, what an unappreciative moron Wade must be to flounce off mad over some disagreement, ‘stead of just hauling Charlie bodily upstairs and doing him right there. The alcohol rendered his breath both sweet and stinging, and this close, Jackson was once more impressed to realize how ridiculously _clean_ Charlie was, compared to everybody else—all them baths, like some Goddamn little yellow cat. He’d been with whores who took far less care of ‘emselves, and still managed to make a living; if Charlie Prince ever thought to start charging, Ben Wade’d never have to rob a stage again.

  
Now the bartender was lookin’ studiously elsewhere, though, which might explain why Charlie felt he had to pull away. “No, goddamn it! This’s what got me in trouble in the first damn place!”

  
Jackson nodded, like he understood. Suggested: “So why stop now?”

  
Charlie literally spit at that, something he did with enough infrequency to render it truly startling. But—

  
“Upstairs,” was all he said, at last. “’Fore I change my damn mind.”

  
Minutes later, they were up against the wall of Jackson's (and Sutherland's, again—have to stop bunkin’ with that fool, he kept on running his lip) room, excavating each other’s mouths with their tongues like they were searching for gold—Jackson holding Charlie a bit up off the floor by the simple positioning of one thigh and carefully working the flap of his Confederate jacket free, button by steady button. “Good God, but you smell fine,” Jackson told him, hoarsely.

  
“ _You_ don’t,” Charlie told him, voice equally hoarse. “You barnyard goddamn animal. You _bull_.”

  
Jackson: “Insult me any way you want, long’s I get to keep on doin’ this.”

  
“Anybody ever tell you you think with your dick?”

  
“Lots of people. Anybody ever tell _you_ when it comes to Wade, you ain’t too brainy above the belt yourself?”

  
With disproportionate strength, Charlie managed to turn them both around, and slammed Jackson back into the exact same spot where he’d been, a mere second before. Hissing: “I don’t care to discuss Ben Wade with you, Jackson.”

  
“Well, fuckin’ finally! That’d be a first.”

  
“Shut UP.”

  
“Gladly.”

  
Much more time passed, blurry with sweat and alcohol. Then there they were, finally, together: Charlie parked all jaybird-raw on the bed with Jackson’s furs laid down for an extra counterspread, one knee hiked up over Jackson’s shoulder and those small pink nipples of his standing up like points, panting and purring as Jackson applied himself vigorously between—not with the achingest part of him, ‘course, since Charlie still insisted on reserving _that_ particular honor for Ben damn Wade alone. But rooting away at the base of Charlie’s cock like a hog after buried apples nonetheless, kissing deep into that pinky-brown little bud with his tongue at full extension. Eventually, he felt secure enough to suck two fingers and plunge them both in at once, hooking them up inside, feeling for that hidden lump—same one made Charlie gasp and jerk, helpless, each time he brushed it even slightly.

  
“So that’s it, huh?”

  
“Uh—what?”

  
“That _thing_. Thing Wade can set you screamin’ with, he hits it just right.”

  
Jackson felt Charlie’s tight stomach muscles flutter helplessly under his other hand, his lifted thigh cramp-flexing against Jackson’s cheek. Yet still in enough command of himself to order, huskily: “You—need to just shut your damn mouth, you ass, and keep on—uh!—goin’…”

  
An evil smile, right into that secret, musky flesh: “Sure I do. Princess.”

  
“Oh, you son of a goddamn bitch—“

  
Jackson gave “that thing” a few more taps, and grinned even wider to see how quick Charlie’s already-swollen parts perked up in response, darkening, pumping dew. All shiny-silky and edible. Thinking: _Mmm, damn. Got to get me a taste of that._ He swooped in, took the salty head in his mouth and forced it down further, almost beyond the point of gagging; heard those grunts above him turn to pigeon-throaty coos, faster than breathing, and knew he must be doin’ something right. Snuffled into the thicket of Charlie’s underbrush, kept up a good steady rythmn with his delving fingers and felt Charlie’s hands fist in his hair, all the while letting his other hand—the unoccupied one—drop down far enough to work his own prick free of them cumbersome flies. It jumped out, full to bursting already, and slickened up as it hit the air, like it’d been dipped in something wet. Almost dripping.

  
 _Here it comes,_ Jackson thought. And: “Oh shit, here it _comes_ ,” he heard Charlie echo, out loud. Then half-saw, half-felt him kick out hard in surprise, as Jackson levered himself up, fast as some jack-in-the box—both knees ablaze, popping painfully with the strain—and whipped his fingers out so he could shove himself inside instead; hove in, crush-heavy, to replace them with his hammer-hard cock. Hauling both Charlie’s legs high ‘n’wide at once, wishbone-sharp, and _slamming_ in to tap that bell of his ‘till it rang out loud and clear: Once, twice, three damn times in a row—

  
“The HELL you think you’re doin’—“

  
“Just take it, Charlie, goddamn it! Made me _wait_ long enough, you fuckin’ little cock-tease—“

  
—and maybe he’d’ve liked to rate a “Jesus Christ!” of his own, here and there; even a “God damn!” might’ve done, at least. But SHIT if it wasn’t just as good as he’d ever dreamed, if not ten thousand times better—so tight and hot and _sweet_ , friction and all, even with Charlie staring daggers up at him under sweat-plastered brows, his pale eyes on fire with lust and hate and anger. Sheer rush of it all enough to light Jackson up from the inside out, so much so he crushed his lips to Charlie’s and gladly took the bite along with the kiss, as his rightful portion. The friggin’ _spoils_.  
Blood in his mouth, slicking both their tongues; Jackson kept on grinning, wide enough to split. Then came like his head was going to pop right off, roaring, loving every fucking second of the experience.

  
Charlie pounded on Jackson’s chest, haphazardly, throughout—eventually butting their heads together with a sick crack when that proved ineffective, so hard he made Jackson’s reel. But they both knew it was a done deal—Jackson had the heft, the leverage, and Charlie’s Judas dick was already primed to spit. Even as Jackson bellowed his victory, Charlie mewed and boxed Jackson’s ears, hard enough to leave bruises; he bent backwards like some circus-turn and shot a trail up his own stomach, then another, and another—slimy-hot, copious enough to mark them both.

  
And: “You bastard,” he managed, soon’s he’d finally got his breath back. “Hope that was damn well worth it—“

  
“It was.”

  
“—‘cause the next time you come ‘round sniffing, all you’re gonna get is my boot in _your_ ass. Or a bullet in your friggin’—“

  
“You wanted to shoot me, Charlie Prince, you’d’ve done it long ‘fore I ever finally got the chance to nail you.”

  
Charlie’s voice climbed, face reddening, fast as prairie sunset. Snarling as he flailed sideways, grabbing for his pants: “Asshole! Goddamn ox! What part of ‘no’ didn’t you understand, you ape? Just get the Hell off, right the Hell _now_ , or—”

  
At which Jackson--already mostly dressed as he was--simply found himself grinning once more, or maybe realized he’d never really stopped. And fired back, insufferably smug: “Already did.”

  
And: The slap made his ears ring, while the punch that followed rocked him back on his heels, teeth loosened—but even along with all the other abuse he’d taken, it was worth it. He felt the both of ‘em all the rest of the day, like an invisible kiss; kept on looking at Charlie slant from time to time, like every hour on the half-hour—seeing fearsome Charlie Prince blush ‘till the back of his neck fair shone, and knowing that for once, it was all of it due to _him_.

  
Sure, he might still be under sentence of offhand death—get handed that pack of dynamite sometime in future, even if Jimmy Jewels got to do it this time ‘round. That was always supposing Jackson didn’t quit this damn gang after all, and go find himself a slightly less insane bunch of thieves to run with…

  
(Aw, but who was he kidding: Not now, not after _that_. Not while he still had feeling where his trousers met his parts, he wouldn’t.)

  
A hell of a night’s work, all told—paid for in rib-ache and hangover, with not one tiny shred of regret. And Wade, that arrogant fucker? After all that…

  
…he never even seemed to notice.

  
THE END


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For those annoyed by the implication Charlie Prince never gets his own back, this coda...

A week or so after Total Wreck, Jackson wakes up to find Charlie Prince sitting astride him once more (usually good), with a drawn knife laid to his throat (almost invariably bad, going on past experience). Has just enough time to huff: “Chah—“ before Charlie puts finger to lips and gives one single, grave headshake; Jackson gets the message well before the knife’s blade has already pressed in just far enough to stain his collar, and shuts up, fast.

  
 _Best let the Princess have his say,_ he thinks, then bites back a groan, hoping Charlie can’t somehow read his automatic use of that hated nickname in his eyes.

  
And: “Here’s the thing, Jackson,” Charlie begins, his flat voice surprisingly calm. “Given all what’s passed between us, I don’t really think I trust you anymore.”

  
“Never really thought you _did_ , that much.”

  
Charlie shrugged. “True enough. Trusted you to know when I say a thing, I damn well _mean_ it, though—maybe that was my mistake.” Leaning closer, voice dropping to a murmur: “You recall what I told you, that first time?”

  
“Uh…try’n fuck you without you say I can, you’ll kill me in my sleep?”

  
“That’s right. So what should I do now, you reckon, I don’t want to prove myself a liar?”

  
Jackson swallows, drily. Manages: “Well—first off, thinkin’ back, I’m kinda heartened you _woke me up_ to remind me…”

  
To which Charlie actually laughs, a grim little cat-sneeze, possibly less in amusement than in vague surprise that Jackson can do two things at once—plead for his life without once sayin’ “please”, plus crack a joke, on top of it.

  
“There might be hope for you yet,” he says, finally. Then slips off and away, leaving Jackson to rub his stinging neck, and count his lucky stars.

  
Which is how, in a roundabout way, Jackson finds himself in his current predicament. Tied down like Apache-bait by his wrists and ankles (Charlie’s idea, the current high cost of any sort of collaboration between ‘em, since that too-drunk night in Total Wreck) to yet another flophouse bed, with Charlie in the position he claims to like best—with Jackson, anyhow: On top.

  
“You really _are_ nothin’ but a Goddamn tease, Charlie Prince,” Jackson notes yet once more, feeling all the blood in his body collect in one particular place, like his heart’s hammering fast through his cock-head. To which Charlie smiles his thin, top-teeth-only predator’s smile, nose bent in knocking-distance away from Jackson’s own, and replies:

  
“Jackson, you dumb ox: Ever wonder why you hardly never get what you say you want most? It’s _honey_ catches the flies, not vinegar—“

  
A dry swallow, breaking in on top: “Lucky I ain’t after no flies, then.”

  
But Charlie doesn’t even pause for breath, just continues. “Now, if you was to ask _nice_ —say please, and all—then maybe things’d go different.”

  
“Yeah, right. And maybe they wouldn’t, considerin’ how all I _did_ was ask, for a while there—Hell, _beg_ , on more’n one damn occasion…”

  
Charlie’s smile slips a bit, at the memory. “I’m not too sure ‘aw c’mon, just let me put it up there once, you fuckin’ purple-shirt-wearin’ fancy-dancer’ counts as flattery."

  
“Well…you _were_ bein’ recalcitrant.”

  
“Fuck you, Jackson.”

  
“Yeah, okay—an’ that’s somethin’ we could do too, sometime, if you really wanted. But since you obviously ain’t inclined to give me anything ‘less _you_ want to, no matter _what_ I take a mind to say, I might as well tell the truth, and shame the damn Devil.”

  
And: Charlie just shakes his head at that, mock-sadly, before going right on back to what he was already doing—running both diffident hands up and down Jackson’s prone, pinned body at once, yet paying no special attention to anywhere Jackson might like him to, as he does; all brisk and efficient and heartlessly exact, like he’s stripping his guns or curry-combing his horse. While Jackson, his own hands far too well-secured for comfort, can’t do much in return but snarl, and groan—

  
“Damnit, Charlie—I thought we had us an understandin’.”

  
“Funny thing; I did, too. ‘Til I found out better.”

  
“Well…you were the one got yourself drunk and let me put my tongue up your ass; what did you think was gonna happen?” A bit more desperate: “Look, can’t I make it up to you, somehow?”

  
“…maybe.”

  
And: This might be an okay way to go, Jackson finds himself thinking, ‘long as nobody who found his body afterward got to laugh too loud over how dumb he looked. Choked to death on Charlie Prince’s sweet little piece, which ain’t actually either all that small or all that tasty, in and of itself—windpipe crushed and chap-burnt from Charlie riding him hard, face-fucking him at a pace that’s its own just punishment, its own perverse reward. ‘Cause it’s almost enough to look up, craning, and catch Charlie bracing himself on the headboard with one hand while he bites the other’s knuckles hard enough to bruise. Head tipped back, his own gold-sheened throat working, pale green eyes clinched shut in ecstasy…

  
“You could’ve asked, is all,” Charlie says later, tumbled beside him, sweaty and slack.

  
Jackson swallows, then swallows again, to re-moisten his mouth for talking. “I _did_ , a hundred times, or damn near. You always said no.”

  
But Charlie just gives a regal shrug to this, all Princess: _My prerogative, right, wrong or otherwise._ Like it’s just the natural dominion of any tyrant, crowned or no, to be as contrary as they want to be. And orders:

  
“Well, maybe I wouldn’t, next time—if you _asked_. Now…say you’re sorry.”

  
Jackson groans. “Aw, Jesus, Charlie…”

  
“ _Say_ it, Jackson. _Mean_ it.”

  
Jackson gives it about a half-moment, trying his damndest to do either, before he feels the righteous rage of someone who’s just let themselves get used like a knothole rise up hot and strong inside him, knotting his muscles and firing up his tongue. Growling out, in reply—

  
“Oh, I’m sorry, all right…sorry we fucked, and you liked it. Sorry I did what you only thought Ben Wade could do—just as good, an’ maybe better. Sorry I gave you what you want. Sorry you’re such a _sore goddamn winner_ …” And here he writhes one more time, almost hard enough to buck Charlie free, growl turning to roar. “Now, if that ain’t good enough, how’s this? You don’t cut me loose, I’m gonna break this damn bed apart, and fuck you ‘til you can’t ride. You like _that_ idea, little Mister Tease?”

  
And: _Oh yeah?_ , he expects Charlie to say, or: _Go ahead and try_ , or maybe even: _I’d like to see THAT. You and what army, exactly?_

  
Instead, Charlie’s cold eyes go hot and soft, wider than Jackson’s ever seen ‘em when Charlie isn’t lookin’ at anyone but Ben Wade; he grins, and purrs—with all-too-evident satisfaction—

  
“—Apology accepted.”

  
THE END


End file.
